What Are You Gonna Do When He Comes For You
by summersaults16
Summary: Little Ginevra just could not sleep because her thoughts were way too deep. Her mind had gone out for a stroll and fallen down a rabbit hole. Allusions to Jack the Ripper, slight Hannibal Lecter, and Sweeney Todd. Victorian Era AU. Gin 'n' Tonic


*** I'm so excited to finally post this fic I wrote for the Babies at the Border Fiction Compilation. And of course, send a big thank you to my beta Sunset-Whispers. I am not following the timeline of the characters in canon and took creative liberties with a lot of things. Remember, this is an AU.**

 **Manip made by St. Dionysus**

 **WARNING: THIS FIRST CHAPTER CONTAINS MILD TORTURE, VIOLENCE, & MINOR CHARACTER DEATH.**

* * *

There stands a man in an empty cobblestone street cloaked by a miasma of ominous black ink. He melts into the darkness with the arrival of dusk and disappears against the backdrop of the sheer void. He blends into the shadows with an unnatural serpentine grace. Lithe body, fluid motions – an agile dancer in the least expected of places.

His calculating eyes glisten and his mouth slowly curves upward in the dark. In the busy hours of the night when no one is looking... Carefully, he _stalks_ ; he _preys_ ; he _lures_ unsuspecting victims. A group of young women come into his line of view. Full-bosomed, wide hips, and slender hourglass figures. The crème de la crème of a female's sexual maturity and of a hot-blooded male fantasy.

 _Such_ _pretty little things,_ he muses to himself. And didn't pretty little things always bear dark, ugly secrets?

This is not usually the crowd he mingles with. His customary assemblage consists of affluent and noble gentlemen. For why would a man of his caliber engage in a conversation with an unmarried woman? And yet, he takes what he will when they give it to him willingly, and _even when they don't_. He steps out of the darkness after mentally counting to five and gathers it's time to begin the show. The lamppost casts his shadow and bleeds black behind him.

Nonchalantly, he walks towards the unsuspecting female vicinity. He maintains a brief distance and does not make eye contact. Instead, he acts as though he is just ' _passing by_ ,' unaware of their presence. But inside he begins to estimate how many of them they are in total. He twirls the diamond cane in his hand in slow, easy movements, taking his sweet time – _waiting_ until one of them takes notice of him.

 _Four_ , he finally concludes.

He spies a woman's head tilt in his direction and it's hard to ignore the sudden tingle up his spine. Then as though on cue,

"Dr. Riddle!" they shout and he turns his head where feminine hands beckon him towards their little group. Inside, he breaks into a wide Cheshire grin. He feels like the big bad wolf or perhaps, the Grim Reaper. Why are unwed girls still out in the street after supper?

He crosses the street and approaches them, tipping his tall hat like the noble gentleman he is. He schools his face with an expression of joviality and flashes the young women with a smile of too perfect teeth. He knows he really does not need to put in the effort.

He is a very handsome man with tousled hair the color of the deepest charcoal and striking grey eyes reminiscent of the last ashes on a fire, tossed up by the breeze.

The mask is held firmly in place.

Each woman smiles prettily and flutter their eyelashes at him. He cannot help the small smirk that graces his lips as he presses a chaste kiss on the back of each gloved hand. He formally introduces himself with a smooth baritone voice – one that conveys his upper class upbringing.

"Good evening, ladies. No need to address me so formally outside of my working hours. Mr. Riddle or Tom Riddle will do just fine."

"What if I call myself Mrs. Riddle, then?" He hears one of them reply cheekily at him though, before he can reply, the group erupts in a fit of girlish giggles.

He chuckles lightheartedly and they assume it's sincere. That's the first mistake in trusting. Every move is calculated and rehearsed. Each act is an orchestrated affair. He's an experienced actor in a stage play.

He easily follows their ongoing conversation and instantly notes the vapid shallowness of their discussion. Topics about _love, makeup, hair, and silly dresses._ Tom wants to roll his eyes and automatically, he tunes out their voices. He offers a polite nod, a smile, or a compliment here and there, to prove he's listening, even though he is not.

Trained eyes travel up and down each female while they continue to converse, not knowing that he is deciding his latest candidate ( _victim)_. He quickly racks his brain, as though searching through an imaginary file cabinet then, stops and plucks out the information he needs.

His mind's eye skims over the four girls' profiles while he attaches the names to the faces. Family histories, statuses, and any relevant or menial details immediately register in a haphazard mess inside his brain.

 _Euphemia Black_ , he thinks to himself – is the woman who flirted with him, mere moments ago. Her last name is well known, even if she is not from the main family, but she is a relative of his acquaintance, Alphard Black. Tom is also aware that despite her strong disapproval, she is set to be engaged to one Fleamont Potter – a man from another prestigious family.

He moves to the next one.

 _Madelyn Selwyn_ , he says in a voice that only he can hear. She is dressed in an evening gown quite similar to the first woman. With shades of periwinkle and blue while the underskirt is of white satin, kilted in front, and trimmed with Mechlin lace, and a garland of purple roses. Her expression is poised as though she is used to giving out orders and her manicured hand rests on an expensive chatelaine purse.

She too, possesses a prominent last name, but it does not command the same air as the Blacks. Still, Tom finds it hard to disregard the niece of the man who controls the citizens' wages.

He sets his gaze to the girl beside her.

 _Eleanor Zabini_ , he considers, is not on the same level as the Blacks, Potters, or Selwyns. They are a newly recognized family of moderate wealth and status. She is lovely – _very lovely_. The kind of woman who knows how to wield her beauty like a weapon. He is well informed about her numerous affairs involving rich widowers and presumes this is how she gained that sudden influx of money. For gossip spreads swiftly in his social circle and scandals like this cannot facilely be dismissed.

Tom does not want to be involved in any unnecessary drama. He begins to weigh his options. Who is the one that will be missed the least?

His gaze finally lands on the last female of the group and discreetly tries to form a name on her person.

 _Myrtle Warren_ , he mumbles as an afterthought, impressed with himself for remembering someone who is forgettable. He blames it on his eidetic memory. A rare ability that allows him to vividly recall images from memory after only a few interactions.

She is wearing an evening dress made of plain beige silk and striped satin of lesser quality. Unlike the other girls, she sticks out like a sore thumb; a common weed among the rich roses. The apples of her cheeks are blanched from the cold night air and her eyes are partially obscured by her short raven hair. She doesn't appear to be a servant and Tom can tell she is not an active participant to their conversation because the women behave as if they are merely tolerating her presence. It makes him wonder what is she doing in the company of these ladies?

His ongoing scrutiny manages to catch her line of sight and she smiles at him in the way girls do when they are feeling shy. Her basque bodice is cut modestly, exposing the smooth skin of her neck and Tom imagines the way his fingers will curl at the base of her throat as he crushes her windpipe. He stares each time she swallows and he subconsciously licks his lips.

"Oh, cousin Orion!" The sound of Euphemia Black's peeved voice snaps Tom out of his reverie. "Where have you been running off to at this hour? We've been waiting for your carriage to arrive as soon as the sun had set and it's well past six o'clock."

"Forgive me for my tardiness, I didn't anticipate the meeting with the foreign investors to take so long," Orion apologizes to his cousin as well as to the other ladies.

He focuses his attention on Tom and extends a hand. "Thank you, Mr. Riddle. It's truly fortunate to have you escort my cousin and her friends. I shudder to think what could've happened had they been left here by themselves or in the company of other men."

"It's my pleasure, Mr. Black," Tom says it like it was no trouble while shaking his hand. If only he can laugh at the irony of the man's words.

"At least let me offer you a ride home," Orion adds as he helps Euphemia, Madelyn, and Eleanor inside the carriage.

"No, thank you." Tom politely shakes his head in refusal and sees him enter after them. He watches as Myrtle stumbles on the skirts of her long dress while trying to climb the carriage steps and he gingerly grabs her arm before she can slip on the hard pavement.

"Be careful," Tom instructs her.

She stutters, "T-thank you," and blushes as her eyes grow wide when she detects the hand still attached to her arm.

He pays it no mind and brushes a lock of stray hair away from her face. He can feel the hostile glares radiating from the three pedigreed women who suspects the poor Warren girl for monopolizing his affections.

Tom carefully helps her up and inconspicuously whispers in her ear, "Don't worry about them, I only have eyes for you. If you feel the same way, please meet me at the Whitechapel district in the East End of London at ten o'clock, tonight. You mustn't tell anyone. It'll be our little secret." He presses an index finger to his lips and grins at her as if they're sharing a private joke.

 **~~O~~**

Later that night Tom gets what he wants. His long, almost spidery fingers savagely coil around Myrtle's throat. He watches her asphyxiate. Her neck veins are engorged and her skin turns to a sickening color while she thrashes and tries to claw at his handsome face. There is primal desperation as her manicured fingernails painfully dig into his wrists and he mildly hisses when he feels her draw blood, but he doesn't let go.

The crazed look and emptiness in his grey eyes terrifies her and Tom knows she wants to scream so he simply squeezes tighter. The edges of her vision become dark. Her mouth is left open and her heart, once rapidly beating, is now sluggish in rhythm. She can feel her life slowly slipping away and they both know her death is near.

It's almost romantic, the act of his sensitive digits wrapped around her flesh. There is something intimate about it. He likes it this way. No blood, no mess, just another empty shell left to rot in the open. He relishes the addictive sensation of having absolute power over another.

 _So do not be mistaken_. His fetish is not for the whores that are scattered across the slums like London rats, nor is he aroused with a woman's anatomy even as they lie naked on the bed, squirming beneath him. He does not rape them. He never does. Tom has no libido for it.

And it's not because he prefers men over women. Although, this seems to be a common trend in the western world of his generation. Alas, homosexuality simply does not appeal to him. He has a preference one might say, almost specific to none. He only wants immortality.

Lazily, he glances at his latest victim – his second kill.

 _What was her name again_? He asks himself and feels something is missing. The human structure can prove to be quite a bore as soon as it turns into nothing but a lifeless corpse. Even if size, skin pigmentation, and eye color may vary.

Where is that familiar high? The insatiable need to kill that is almost as natural as breathing? The bloodlust that flows through his veins is not as strong as the day he murdered his father.

He decides to spice things up a bit. This Warren girl put up a good fight. He produces a knife, twisting and turning it in the light as if it can slice the air, and stabs her.

The sharp object meets her now pale flesh, still soft and pudgy – a sign of pallor mortis. The tip of the blade satisfyingly sinks deep enough to tear her skin into shreds. Tom rotates the knife, the sound of muscles and nerves being gouged grow louder. The thick, warm crimson liquid gushes between his fingers and oozes under his hand.

Tom mutilates her and decides, he likes it. His fingers are sticky with the congealing fluids and the metallic smell of blood invades his nostrils. Still, he can't help but feel something is missing.

The sun is peeking over the horizon in a radiant, white form while ribbons of golden sunlight spill into the city – a sign of a new day. Tom lift his hands to the sky, observing how the dried streams of Myrtle's blood decorate his arms all the way down to his fingertips.

Immediately, he spots her from a distance. He doesn't see her face. A girl with long, vivid red hair. Her locks have the same color of freshly spilled blood that resembles the proof of his sin and Tom suddenly feels whole.


End file.
